


Thrum

by marginalia



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-18
Updated: 2003-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 20:38:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10368936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia/pseuds/marginalia





	

when you arrive in new zealand, it's boy scout camp run amok. they've been there for ages already. training and bonding and fighting and forming the intricate web of relationships which will get them through the shoot.

they love you, and they call you their princess. all of them, the hobbits and orli, hobbitsnorli, one word really. they're open and giving, but they are a unit, the full time fellowship, and you are a girl and a part time elf.

you do what you can to fit in. you've been on all-boy sets before. you know what to do. how this works. correction. how this usually works. any other set and you could show them, through a few late nights at the pub, that you really are just one of the boys. a few beers, a few well-chosen words about the waitress, that's all it usually takes for the boys to learn the thrill of checking out girls -with- a girl. that's what it takes and you're in and they're talking and spilling their locker room secrets and you learn everything that you didn't really want to know.

but this time it doesn't work. they go out, the hobbitsnorli, and they take over the pub. they take it over, unintentionally, but there's a very definite border between their energy and that of the local crowd. they drink so much that you're amazed that they can get up for feet and ears in the morning. they dance, but the word seems insufficient. they move out onto the battered planks of the floor and the current between them thrums so hard you can practically see it.

but you can't touch it.

so you sit back at the table with viggo. viggo who doesn't even try to touch it. viggo who relaxes into the booth, watching the group with deceptively lazy eyes, eyes that are really capturing every move, filing away the way orlando tugs at the loops of billy's jeans, the way dom's hand sneaks up the back of elijah's shirt, the way all four of them grind together, an organism beyond the fellowship.

it's not even them that you want. it's the thrum, the vibe, the sparks that they'll remember long after the film has wrapped.

but it's theirs and theirs alone.

you know it's hopeless, but you try anyway. in a last-ditch effort you cash in your stupid-american card and order orlando to drive you to set. you hope for an elven connection. it doesn't happen. orlando is pure open energy even at this ungodly hour, but even with that you sense the distance. the barrier. and you wilt.

time passes and the thrum deepens. the web tightens. bean grows further from his wife and closer to viggo. another web springs up and you lose your sleepy eyed companion.

still you go. a formality. have a beer, watch the dance, laugh at dom when he swings by the table, serenading you, his dark princess.

but it's all so cold, and you swallow down your drink past the hard lump in your throat.

finally cate arrives. john introduces you, half in love already: "here, liv, she's our galadriel!" she smiles. distant. but you see the thrum deep in her eyes. you see it, sure enough, file it away, and the cold loneliness dares to hope.

it doesn't take long. cate's been playing this game as long as you have. she waits a few days, and it's a pub night again. you, cate, viggo and bean sipping drinks, watching the dance. suddenly something clicks inside cate. she grabs your hand, pulls you up from your chair and out onto the floor.

and you're there and you're dancing. and no one is watching, which is probably for the best. cate spins her web around you, hums and purrs and grinds her thigh between your legs. it's there at last, the energy in the tangle of limbs, and you're dizzy with it.

when you finally touch cate. really touch cate. she's warm and pliant where she looks cool and porcelain. your fair princess. you kiss her, hard, shoving her against the wall. she smiles into the kiss. "anxious?" she asks. "shall we go?" she suggests, and bites at your lower lip.

you give her the only answer she needs. you thrum.


End file.
